


Merry Christmas, Cherry Valance

by TheRealSEHinton



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: F/F, most of these people are dead ywhwhejqhq
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28310304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSEHinton/pseuds/TheRealSEHinton
Summary: Christmas Eve,1966. Mistletoe, jealousy, and a lesbian.
Relationships: Sylvia/Sherri "Cherry" Valance
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Merry Christmas, Cherry Valance

**Author's Note:**

> hello 😃 I'm back ahsjsjajs
> 
> I know I definitely wasn't gone for that long but for me it felt like forever I was in a stump quwjdhhd
> 
> my summary isn't that good but I don't care cuz I'm actually kind of happy with this sooo.... please enjoy shehwh2h2hequw

The doorbell’s shrill sound sang through the house--reaching all the way upstairs and to my room. 

I shrug on a pink cardigan, fitting it over my shoulders and shivering a little. Normally I’d wear more, I think. At the very least, I’d layer myself with a turtleneck, maybe some high, thick socks over my tights. I’m not a fan of the cold, never have been, I do my best to stay comfortable under the circumstances. When I do go out during winter, and usually I’m forced to, I muster all the warmth I can--under thousands of jackets and sweaters and mittens and hats. 

But I don’t think I’d fit in well with Sylvia’s crowd dressed up like that. 

A few days ago, she slung her arm around me and whispered against my ear, “You got any plans for Christmas Eve, Cherry?”

And I said, “No.” Even though I did. 

But I would hardly consider them ‘plans’ at this point. It’s traditional, of course, that every Christmas Eve my parents and I make the thirty-minute trip to my grandparent’s manor. And then we sit down amongst close and distant relatives, making polite conversation and discussing meaningless things for four long hours, then drifting off to one of the many guest rooms and stowing away until morning. 

Well, it was traditional until I missed last year’s. I expected my parents to make more of a fuss about it, in the end, my mother only patted my hair as my father stayed silent. They planned to go on without me, I think, or at least my father did. Instead, we collectively spent the holiday locked up in the house--at some point during the cold night, mother visited me with a steaming cup of cocoa, staying for a while to hold me and run her fingers through my hair.

And that afternoon with Sylvia, when I quickly responded ‘no’ once I noticed how little bits of snow were getting caught in her eyelashes--I didn’t really expect my parents to let me off the hook for another Christmas.

But she smiled, so bright I think it could have been genuine, and said, “I have the whole night planned for us, Valance.” 

I was out of bed as soon as I heard the sound of my parents’ shower. I took a blowdryer and held it near my temple, patiently waiting until I felt the heat of its air creep over my face. When my mother clasped her pearls together behind her neck, I coughed. When they asked what was wrong, I pressed their hands against my head.

“I’m feeling sick,” I said.

Mother bit her lip in worry, clucked her tongue at my father, and shook her head. “I should stay behind.”

I responded a bit too hastily I think--a bit too desperate. “You already missed last Christmas, I wouldn’t want you to miss this one too. Besides,” I played with a strand of hair, I crossed my ankles, “I’m not feeling too good, you know, around this time of year. I think I’d rather be alone.”

My parents both nodded in an unspoken understanding. I still feel a little bad, thinking about how I basically used Bob’s death. But Bob was always such an asshole, he owes it to me. 

For the past few years, he would join our thirty-minute rides to the manor. And he’d greet everyone with a cheery face and myself hanging off of his arm. He’d hold me close and press chaste kisses to my cheek when certain people looked--all at my request. And I’d let him, there was a certain attention I got with Bob Sheldon as my boyfriend. The memory of it all felt piercing last Christmas, its sting faded slightly this time around. 

My parents left only about two hours ago. In the meantime, I hopped into the shower, scrubbed my hair vigorously with shampoo and conditioner, shaved my legs--and anywhere else that required the attention--picked out the optimal outfit to wear--not too tight, not too loose, not too warm, not too rich, not too prudish, not too obvious--and spent the rest of the time tangling, untangling, teasing, unteasing, combing, braiding, and unbraiding my hair. 

I end up leaving it down. Sylvia likes my long hair anyways--not that she says so, but she plays with it a lot and makes little comments on it. I take a long pink ribbon and tie it over my head, making sure the bow stays hidden just behind my neck. I’ve never been a fan of ribbons, but Sylvia is. She once braided my hair and tied in little strings all over, she says it makes me look pretty.

I had the hardest time with the makeup. My skin is probably going to get a rash in the next few days from all the applying and then wiping off and then reapplying. I settled on some blush, mascara, and a cherry-flavored lip balm--all the while, my hands trembled, though I don’t think I was that cold. 

It’s ten pm once Sylvia rings the doorbell. I’ve just grasped at the bare skin of my neck, feeling exposed when I usually cover myself with a necklace or scarf. 

My fingers clench, unclench, and tense as I stare in the mirror one more time--tucking any loose strands of hair I find and adjusting the fit of my clothes, tugging softly at my skirt. My heart lifts in a nervous beat when the bell rings again. I can picture her, Sylvia, standing at my front porch and tapping her foot impatiently--nodding her head and chewing whatever flavored bubble gum she’s gotten her hands on. The image makes me feel a little flutter in my chest. 

I take a breath and rush down the stairs, stopping once I reach the door to calm myself, inhaling and exhaling deeply, and twist the handle. 

She’s there just as I imagined, propping all of her weight on a leg and bursting a large, pink bubble in her mouth once she sees me--gifting me that wide smirk like she gifts everyone. She cut her hair a while back, short enough to barely graze her chin--and she styles it with gel so that her curls fall loose and soft. I can already tell it’s been growing, her little ends are racing to reach her shoulders, and the blonde streaks are gleaming under my porch light. Her big black boots scuff on the ground, covered in dusty snow and old and creasing, but she refuses to wear anything else. She’s got on black tights, a matching flared skirt, and a red sweater that buttons up and reveals a bit of her bare stomach. My eyes set intently on the jacket she wears--denim and oversized, so oversized and big and large that it can’t possibly be hers or another girlfriend’s. 

I feel a sting in my gut.

A sharp pain crosses over me and I look somewhere else to distract myself from it--the bottle of tequila in Sylvia’s arm, wrapped neatly with a red bow.

“Well, hello there, Miss Cherry,” she says slowly, eyeing me up and down. My body flushes under her hot-stare, I feel like melting each time she looks at me. “What’s going on, doll?”

Instead of responding, I gesture to the alcohol with my arm, my hands stay trapped in the warmth of my cardigan. “What’s that?”

She flashes it playfully, twisting around on her delicate ankles. “Our Christmas gift.” Her hand reaches out to my shoulder, grasping tight and pulling me to her like a magnet. “We’re gonna get so blitzed and by the end of the night you won’t be able to walk straight.”

I only set my mouth tight and shrug her hand off of me--it takes a bit of effort to make that decision, I’d honestly like to keep her wrapped around my body for as long as possible. “You know how I feel about drinking, Sylvie.”

She purses her lips and goes quiet. 

I’m often insecure as to whether Sylvia feels the same way about me as I do about her. It’s almost silly, at this point, to let her air of indifference bother me--considering I might as well be obsessed with her and the fact that she’s had more experience with relationships and women than I have. She smiles in this calculated, seductive kind of way, I can’t quite piece together whether or not it’s real. 

The only clue she gives me is the way her face softens whenever I say ‘Sylvie’. She goes still for a moment, the brown in her eyes melts away like gold, and then her cheeks turn this gentle kind of pink. I don’t say it often out of fear that the magic might fade away with time, but whenever I do she’s always more inclined to listen to me. 

Beyond that, she’s not as willing to brush my feelings off as others are. I feel ridiculous sometimes, being distraught as I am even still--though it’s been a year since the incident. I grew up my entire life acting cool, almost emotionless. I never regarded the world with feeling, the idea of wearing my heart on my sleeve was laughable. And all that ever pained me for the past 16 years, I ignored. It was almost easy to pretend my hurt was nonexistent. That’s the way mother raised me, she taught me to cover all my bruises with makeup, to smile whenever guests were over, and if there’s purple on my collarbone, “that’s the reason the good Lord created turtlenecks.”

My brain felt like glass, hot, searing, shattering, when Bob died. And something in my chest bloomed, bright red, blistering across my entire body. I was feeling. It was deep, overwhelming, consuming.

And at his funeral, I was the first and last to cry. Because when I saw his body in that coffin, I realized I was never going to see him again. I can put on all the powder I want, I can play a record to drown out my parent’s screaming, I can kiss a boy and let my mind go blank. But I can’t pretend that Bob is there. I can’t pretend he’s alive.

For the first few months of it all, people tried to understand. Even though they were all used to this perpetual state of casual numbness, chaste smiles and empty eyes, they allowed me to retreat into myself. But then I stopped going to parties, then my lips turned downwards anytime I was offered a drink, then I refused to let my friends reach out to me.

“You’ve gotta get over yourself,” Marcia told me. “I care about you and I know it hurts, but this isn’t you. Jesus, Cherry, a few months ago you would’ve been making fun of yourself. Bob wouldn’t want this. And I hope I don’t sound mean but, just, this doesn’t feel right.”

Even she couldn’t take the time to understand. And I felt like I was in the hot seat, being watched by everyone and judged. Looking like a fool and not even knowing why I couldn’t get my shit together.

Sylvia was the one person who made me feel alright, the one person who listened to me.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, pretending to be frustrated--but I notice the light dimple in her cheeks. “Alright, Valance, we won’t get hammered. But it is Christmas Eve, you have to promise me one drink, at least one. Maybe a shot, but we’re drinking tonight!”

I can’t help myself from laughing, absentmindedly nestling closer to her when she pulls me in again. I bob my head and giggle as we step off my porch and stumble through my neighborhood. “Okay. But only one drink, no more.”

“Ugh,” she groans dramatically. “Fine. But don’t get mad and pissed ‘cause you’re sober and I’m roaring drunk.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey…” We abruptly stop in the middle of the street, Sylvia clutches my shoulder tightly and stares at me with a look of confusion on her face. I’m about to ask her if something’s wrong, but she then leans in, nuzzling her face in my hair, and takes a few sniffs. I go perfectly still, standing rigid as she smells softly and grips onto me, my body flushing all over. She pulls back with a quirked lip and a dimple. “Did you use a different shampoo today?”

Yes. I did. I didn’t think she’d notice, I was hoping so, that’s why I did it--she loves the scent of strawberries--but I didn’t actually think she would.

I shake my head and smile. “No.”

“Hm,” she squints her eyes and shrugs, “it smelled different, but, guess I was wrong.”

“Oh,” is all I say before we start walking again. 

We don’t really talk as we make our way through town. Sylvia blabbers on and on as she usually does, but I hardly consider it to be conversation. She’ll ramble about just anything she possibly can--the way soft flakes fall from the clouded sky, how she absolutely adores the cold weather, and she could have sworn she just saw a rat scurry over in that corner. 

She also recaps her past week to me, detailing all she’s done in the moments we didn’t spend together--painting white, snowy landscapes in her room at her mom’s, drinking eggnog and getting tipsy with Evie. 

“My dad swung by a few days ago,” she adds casually, her voice painfully light and airy, as if she couldn’t care less.

“Oh,” I say, “really?”

“Yeah.” She examines her nails and gives her shoulders a perfunctory roll. “He told me he got me a present, said I could visit him tomorrow if I wanted. And we could spend Christmas together.”

“Well… are you going to?”

She shakes her head, her curls waving around--bits of frost flailing off of them. “No. I think it’s weird how he only started reaching out to me after you-know-what happened last year. Or, not weird, I guess, just… I think he’s such a pussy.” She inhales deeply, then purses her lips. “I don’t even know why I’m talking about this, I put on too much makeup tonight to start crying.”

We’re silent for the rest of the walk to Buck’s, Sylvia hanging tight onto my arm and leaning close--me fighting the urge to bury my face into her neck and never pull away. She jumps up and down excitedly once we reach the doorstep and starts whooping.

“Ms. Sherri Valance,” she yells, pointing a finger at me, “this is going to be the bestest, funnest Christmas of your life. I’ll make sure of it.”

As much as I doubt her, I only smile and nod dumbly, letting her take my hand in hers, burning bright as she touches me, and drag me inside of the building. The party is both everything I expected it to be and everything I hoped it wasn’t, a flashing, crowded space overflowing with hot bodies, people screaming, laughing, grinding, and piercing each one of my senses. Just looking at the scene feels like a continuous stab to my skull. I hold onto Sylvia as we slither through the throngs, praying she won’t leave me alone.

I haven’t gone to an actual party in a whole year, and even before, I never really enjoyed that kind of mindless raving--not the alcohol nor the noise nor the thundering headaches that followed each morning.

Sylvia and I run into Buck, the man I’ve always heard mentions of but never truly met. I glue myself to her side, trying my best to hide in her body--wishing that was somehow physically possible. He’s older than I ever imagined him to be, considering how often he hosts parties with underaged kids, and he’s almost scary looking--with the sharp canines, the furrowed brow, and the large, calloused hands. But his eyes land on Sylvia, and he gives her this smile, all bright and genuine and kind hearted, and suddenly he doesn’t look all that bad, maybe he even looks a little younger. 

“Sylvia!” He exclaims happily, extending an arm to pull her into a hug. I almost reach out to steal her body away from him before I help myself, hot as it is, I feel cold without her near me. He finally releases her, allowing her to step back beside me and link our fingers together again. “I didn’t know if you were coming this year!”

She grins and shakes her head hastily, there’s this light in her eyes and it makes my heart squeeze, just seeing how cheery she is. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” With a nod of her head, she gestures over to me--still standing stiff and awkward next to her. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought a guest.”

He waves his hand and laughs carelessly. “Of course not, you know me, the more the merrier.” He flashes me a quick smirk and, politely, I return to him a tight-lipped smile. He focuses his attention on Sylvia once again. “I missed your energy last year, you know. Christmas just isn’t the same over here without the two of you.”

She nods and forces a chuckle, it feels heavy--her grip on my hand becomes tighter. “I’ll bet, Buck. I refuse to make you suffer another year, good friend.”

He tips his head back and cackles heartily, smiling and patting her shoulder, almost fatherlike in a way. “Good, Sylvia, it’s real good to have you here… and your friend.”

We don’t stick around Buck for too long, he pours us both a drink from the tequila Sylvia so graciously gifted him and sends us on our way--seeming more interested in the company of women that currently surround him. I find myself stuck against a wall, nervously strumming my fingers against a plastic cup I have no intention of drinking from. Sylvia is swaying to the music on my right, bobbing her head and singing along to the loud record that plays. 

She turns to me with a gentle beam, kindness in the crinkle of her brown eyes, and yells, “You having fun?”

I inch closer to her and yell right back, “Yeah, I am. I think.”

“Good!” She nods, face bubbly and voice sing-songy. “That’s great. Uh…”

Her voice begins to trail off as she shifts her focus across the flaring room. I follow the aloof trail of her gaze, noticing a tall, dark man in the middle of the room, dancing and twirling some girl in his arms. Once Sylvia’s eyes land on him, he looks up at her and smiles wickedly with the corner of his mouth, a certain familiarity lies in the glint of his stare. I watch as Sylvia returns that grin with a smirk of her own--the one she uses to make people stumble over their words. That awful feeling in my chest, the same one from before, comes back all twisty and cold. 

She gives me a quick glance and a brush on my shoulder with her hand, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

I’m cold and helpless as she strides away from me, pathetic as she straddles up to the man, gripping his arm, pulling him close, so easily prying his attention away from the poor, confused girl beside him. He eyes her up and down cheekily, tongue caught in between his teeth. When he opens his mouth, she laughs, places a hand on his forearm, closes the space between them--only slightly, but enough to make my breath hitch. Then she grabs the edges of her jacket, pulling them back and slipping out her arms, keeping a hand behind her back as she lifts it up to him and winks. He takes it from her, and the smile on his face is wolfish.

I feel my heart sink down to my gut.

Sylvia’s different from me in every way. She’s as open as any book could be, and sometimes it’s like she’s teasing you to flip her pages. It’s a test of hers, in a way, to weed out the people in her life. To see how far she can push them, how much of her they can stand, before they eventually turn away. She doesn’t expect anyone to get to the last chapter, I can’t say if that’s happened yet--not even with myself. 

She’s not inclined to keep any secrets, in her eyes, she is what she is and that’s about it. And essentially, she’s a whore. At least that’s what people say about her when she walks by, that’s the word all her exes like to describe her as. Tell her that to her face and she’ll smile and shrug, because what’s the point in hiding what she likes? She likes people, and she likes having sex with them, and she doesn’t think it’s too big of a deal. Men are often intimidated by her promiscuity--they enjoy it for a night at most and then shame her afterwards. She doesn’t care.

I often feel bad, considering that I’m intimidated too. I don’t think anything bad of her, I doubt I have the capability to. But her body, her confidence, her shameless enjoyment in all carnal things, I guess there's no other way to describe how I feel, I'm in awe.

I've only ever been with two people. Of course, there was Bob. And, well, I did what I did with him because I felt like I had to. All my friends were doing it with their boyfriends, they laughed about all their first times, clumsy gropes in car seats, makeouts in the backs of theaters--thinly disguised tales, veiled in giggles, their way of proving they were each better than the other. And they were all better than me. While it made me inferior to them, it also made them envious. They would tease me, call me 'the golden girl,' perfect Cherry Valance just trying to maintain her perfection. But I didn't feel that way, I felt weak. Then there was Bob and his desperate hands on my thighs and by my chest, twirling my hair and gripping my chin, begging me sometimes without words and sometimes with words. He liked my virginity for a while until it inconvenienced him. He tried to be nice about it but gradually he became more and more impatient. And suddenly I was too tired. I felt like I was missing out on something and it made me different, a bad kind of different.

I didn't like it. Not after the first time or the second or the third. And I never grew to like that feeling, no matter when or where. Or who.

Randy. I was with Randy, once. Bob and I had broken up, again. And he was gone for the summer at some camp and Marcia and Randy hadn't dated yet. Just like with Bob, I often like to block those moments out of my memory with a buzz. But I remember very clearly what Randy had told me, so softly and kind. "Are you feeling pressured, Cherry?" 

I thought it was such a funny thing to ask, back then. I was the one kissing him, the one guiding his hand, the one pulling him close to me. And I told him, over and over, yes, yes, I'm okay. But he still asked me that, and it broke the strange haze I set myself in.

Am I feeling pressured? Pressured there, with Randy. Pressured at school, with my friends, with my parents. With Bob whenever he caught my chin in his hands and smiled, and beckoned me with a little question in his eyes. I wasn't saying no. I was never forced. But that straining feeling on my shoulders, like a heavy weight, like a strong hand enclosing itself around my neck, pulling at me again and again, was that pressure?

When I look up at Sylvia and the gentle way she beckons men with her lips, the way she presses them against her and smiles, I'm a little jealous. I often wonder what it's like to be liberated the way she is, is it relieving to not have the same pressure I do? To just… feel. To feel and not guess and double guess and cross examine, constantly scratching your brain and questioning what's true and what's not. 

Is it any easier to see life like that? No melodrama or theatrics, a perfunctory view. People are pretty, and as long as they can't give anything to you--don't give away too much to them. It must be simpler that way, dancing through life, rather than the anxious steps I take each day--constantly walking on eggshells, filled with doubt and dread and even more doubt.

I wonder if I'm real sometimes, if anything about me is real. If I'm even myself. I often feel like I don't even know who I am, and it's been that way ever since Bob died. I'm not anyone's girlfriend, I'm not the golden child, I'm not the perfect soc, I'm not anything like I used to be.

The only time I ever feel like something… someone with worth, someone with value, is around Sylvia. 

Without her, I'm a mess. A fucked up mess, especially as I watch her touch that guy's bicep one last time, kiss his cheek, and strut over to me, looking uncomfortably bare without the denim jacket--well, uncomfortably bare for me. 

She sighs when her back hits the wall beside me, the grin on her plump lips loose and bright, her fingers dancing as she raises her cup to her mouth and takes a big gulp. I fidget nervously with my skirt, twisting the fabric around and around, tapping my feet on the dirtied floor. She notices, I think. Her gaze slides over to me curiously, and that dimple in her cheek appears.

She’s about to say something, I speak before she has a chance to. “Who was that?”

I gesture to the man with my hand, he’s back to dancing with that girl, big hands on her curvy hips--the same one from before. The poor thing looks all pouty and distressed, unhappy, obviously, with what just happened. He looks at us occasionally, and flashes Sylvia that smirk every now and then.

“Just some guy I hung out with the other day,” she says, shrugging. Her eyes fall on me, crisp vibrant. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” I say, all too hastily I think. “Not really.” A lie, another one. I’m beginning to tally it all in my head, the many times I’ve lied tonight. It’s almost like I can’t stop. “Just wondering, there’s some awful weird fellows, you know.”

She laughs and shakes her head, and her curls, I notice, are so bouncy. “He’s alright, Cherry. I mean, nothing special though. We just hung out.”

Nothing special, I repeat slow in my mind. Skimming over each individual word, each syllable. 

That perfunctory view of hers, the casual way she likes to regard the world. Nothing special. I wonder if she has exceptions, if there’s anyone she looks with a warmer regard, with some fondness. It may be selfish, maybe I’ve been selfish all night long, but I think of myself too. Am I special to her?

That’s when I ask myself, if I’m no one important to Sylvia, if I’m no one perfect, if I’m no one’s girlfriend, who am I?

Sylvia asks me to dance a little while later. I can’t say how long we’ve been here, only that it feels somewhere between thirty seconds and six hours all at once. I don’t know if it’s the jumping bodies or the heat or the lights, but time seems almost nonexistent or altogether different. 

I’ve mainly stuck to the wall, keeping a safe distance from everyone else as Sylvia weaves in and out of crowds--laughing and dancing and jumping. She warned me this place would be different from what I’m used to, a bit of an understatement, in hindsight. Even when completely inebriated, there was always a tense atmosphere among the people in my social circle. As if there were these limits, boundaries, that we had set forth, rules we had no intention of breaking.

With Sylvia’s friends, there’s a certain chaos, a vulnerability. And drunk or not, an air of friendliness and joy plagues the house. You know everyone even if you don’t, you’re family even if you’re not, you’re lovers, you’re everything to everyone. To feel that known and seen, it’s something I’m not used to. It’s something that makes me want to hide.

Maybe Sylvia sees that or maybe she doesn’t, but she reaches out to me anyways. Giggles drunk and takes my arms in hers, begs me to join her in the middle of the room. I could refuse, a part of me wants to and, honestly, a part of me doesn’t.

We’re together, we’re close, and I’m warm all over. There are people around us, but I only know that as a fact. I can’t feel them or see them because I’m looking at Sylvia. The soft black around her almond eyes, the rose tint on her lips, the apple of her cheeks. I wonder how she manages to look so. Perfect. 

Our hands are touching each other, all of the sudden, our fingers are being linked. She’s smiling at the blush on my face--I feel pink, I just feel it hot on my skin. The inside of my body is like a roller coaster, I fight the urge to twist my head around, check if anyone is looking at us, glaring, if they know what we are.

I only know of a few people like me in this town, in my life. There’s me and Sylvia, obviously. There’s Ponyboy, which he admitted to me a while ago--he even suggested that maybe Johnny and Dally had something going on. And Randy, while he’s never confirmed anything, there’s just this feeling I get. We’ve always understood each other like that, and while I love Marcia, I felt like he knew me more. Not because we were particularly talkative, but because there was a distinct knowledge we felt. If it wasn’t obvious in those familiar glances we shared, it was obvious that night we spent together, those summers ago, when he started crying and I excused myself to the bathroom for an hour or two. 

And maybe, beyond that small group, there’s even more people like us in this town.

I grew up so unsure, so scared. Even when I couldn’t put a name to that restlessness, it was always there eating me away. Especially when my friends touched me, linked our arms, kissed my cheek, pet my hair. And when they would tell me I was pretty and I would say the same to them, there was an alarm in my head, and a pain in my chest. To calm down, I reminded myself they were my friends. We were just friends. And all girls look at girls the way I do, all girls like appreciating the fine dip of a waist, the skin of a leg, delicate wrists and ankles, soft lips. It’s how friends see friends.

Sylvia sets her back to my chest, presses against me, laughs into the air. Everyone is so close like us, everyone is happy and laughing and touching. I wonder how they’re looking at us. Do we look like friends?

And I wonder how Sylvia looks at me, who am I to her in that blurred little line between friend and lover? The question rings again in my mind: who am I?

Thirty minutes later, and I'm alone. Sylvia gave my shoulder that squeeze, this gesture she does when she's about to leave me, a reminder that she'll be back soon. And when she left me by myself in a throng of strangers, I decided not to retreat back to the wall. 

Before she was gone, she asked me, eyes wide, "Are you really having a good time?"

I remembered the way Buck looked at her, the way they hugged, and that warmth in her eyes. I remembered the excited way she skipped up to the doorstep and pumped her hands in the air. And even if I wasn't having a good time, I wanted to for her.

Even on my own, I feel like she's watching me. Like I can turn a corner and she'll be there. If she's looking at me, I hope she sees a smile. 

I can't lie and say I'm not entirely enjoying myself. I certainly didn't think I would when I first entered the house--I reacted to all the people and the noise with immediate distaste and discomfort. But I'm still here these few hours later, and I don't hate it. Maybe it's just the booze kicking in.

Some man, tall, dark, around my age with a large head of kinky hair, asked me to dance. I expected to see a predatory stare and a shady grin--wolfish like Sylvia's guy from earlier that night. Instead, I was met with black eyes twinkling with amusement and soft hands pulling me close, all the while laughing with a certain friendliness. When he started moving me around in his arms, it felt like dancing with an old pal.

In the midst of tangling myself around and around, twisting my body to the melody of the music and feeling some strange, out of body experience packed so tightly between all the people, I notice Sylvia from the corner of my eye. Her smile is wide, genuine, the dimples on both of her cheeks prominent. 

I give out a little breath at the sight of her. 

Someone comes up from behind her, a guy, different from before. She falters for a moment when pulling her gaze away from me, looking up at him with a large beam--lighting up her face like a Christmas tree. He reaches his hand around her and over her face, playfully twirling something around in between his fingers. I recognize it as mistletoe.

She goes bright instantly, widening her grin and taking his face in her two hands. They lean towards each other, arms wrapping around waists, and plant long, sloppy kisses on each other's mouths. The crowd around them roars, dying with laughter as Sylvia pulls away and licks his face, making a gross and entertaining show of it all. She jumps around, pulling him into a tight, suffocating hug and cackling wildly. 

It's like she made everyone fall in love with her in an instant.

Then she turns to me with a devilish look in her eye, giggling and pushing past the many people who applaud her as she walks by, hundreds of eyes trailing her hasty movements. She stumbles over drunk feet in front of me, laughing as she grips onto my shoulder with one hand and lifts the other into the air. Our eyes both follow each other, landing on the mistletoe she's dangling above us.

My tongue feels thick all of the sudden. I stare at her face with my heart in my throat, choking on all of my thoughts--my brain completely empty but also running at a million miles an hour. There's no joke in her expression, just a cheeky grin and some booze on her breath.

"What?" I breathe.

"It's tradition," is all she says.

"What-" I repeat, stammering, blinking fast, "what do you mean?"

Sylvia only chuckles and places her fingertips on the collar of my cardigan, drawing me close with the slightest tug. "I think the mistletoe means we're meant to kiss, darling."

I swallow loud. "In front of all these people?"

She scrunches her nose like it's no big deal and I feel my teeth catch my lips in a nervous pull.

"Sylvia, I don't know. What if we-"

My voice trails off when I notice how her face falls. I decide to say nothing more. Her grip on me loosens, both of her arms eventually falling stiff at her sides. "It's really no big deal, Cherry. I've kissed girls before on Christmas, it's just a game."

When I don't respond she sighs and shakes her head. "I get this just isn't your thing." She turns her body away, "I'll find someone else."

"Wait!"

We're still as I grab her arm tightly, stopping her from leaving. She looks over her shoulder with wide eyes, and then her face settles into this kind of smug look. I almost want to kick myself for falling for her trick. But I don't. Instead I lean forward and crash our lips together, and suddenly my body is on fire. 

For a moment, everything is hot and in the worst way possible. I can feel the heat of a thousand stares, the unrelenting gaze of everyone around me, and nothing feels more wrong. But then Sylvia tangles her hands in my hair and presses our bodies close, and something seems right for just a bit. Her warm breath mixing with mine, the subtle taste of tongue and vodka, and the warmth of her soft touch, buzzing sensations flooding my brain--almost like how it feels when we're alone.

I don't want to stay kissing her in public for too long, and thankfully she doesn't let me. We let our mouths linger for a couple of seconds and then break apart. I can feel the crowd around us, I can feel how they scream, but the only thing I hear right now is the thundering in my chest--my heart's beating like crazy.

Sylvia licks her lips and links our fingers together, passing on the mistletoe to me. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I can barely manage to speak, like my lungs and brain have both failed me all at once. "I guess."

"Well," she laughs, "now it's your turn."

My mind goes blank for a moment and I stiffen. "Huh?"

She must think I can't hear her over the music, she puts her mouth by my ear and yells, "It's tradition! You're next!"

"To kiss someone?" I ask.

She nods. 

"No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "I can't do that!"

"But it's tradition!" She pleads.

"Sylvia. I won't do that."

My voice comes out more firm than I intended--I almost startle hearing myself. Sylvia must notice too. I can barely indicate the kind of emotions she lays on her face most of the time, but she almost seems upset. Her body kind of deflates and she bobs her head slowly.

"Alright," she says, softly snatching the mistletoe from me. "I'll go kiss someone else then."

I don’t stop her as she leaves this time. 

It’s only a little while later when Sylvia comes back, catching my wrist and pulling me away from the corner of the room I’ve withdrawn to. I don’t ask where we’re going or what she's doing, and at some point she answers me, yelling over her shoulder, “We’re leaving.”

My stomach flips around and settles like a heavy rock. 

She finds Buck again, this time splayed on a couch and holding the hips of a different woman. He smiles when we approach and she meekly returns it, asking, “That spare room of yours still available, Buck?”

“For you,” he says, grin wide on his face, making him look young to me again, “course I do, Sylvia.”

“Perfect,” she nods, extending her open hand to him, “we’re staying there tonight.”

He reaches into his pocket and fishes there for a while before pulling out a small key, drops coolly into Sylvia’s palm, watches as she clutches it-- all the while sipping from his red, plastic cup. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth and he raises his drink like a salute. “‘Kay girls. Have a good night.”

“Thanks,” is all Sylvia says before leading me away. I manage a quick, thankful look to Buck before I’m dragged off, following her into a crowded hallway and then up a flight of stairs.

She’s quiet as we walk to a locked up room, silent as she takes the key Buck gave her and pries the door open. It swings with a creaking sound, and the inside of the place is dark and cold. There’s a large bed in the middle, all neat and made, that looks like it hasn’t been used for quite some time. I immediately tug at my cardigan, hoping for some extra warmth in the chilly air. 

“What time is it?” I ask.

Sylvia plops onto the bed and starts pulling off her shoes, glancing up at me and gesturing to a clock on the other end of the wall. Before I can read it, she replies, “12:30.”

I breathe out a little with a shiver, noticing the slightest puff of air leaving my lips. “Do you usually leave parties this early?”

She shrugs. “No, I’ll usually stick around until 2.”

“Well,” I start, nervously playing with any loose threads my restless fingers can find, “why’d we leave then?”

When she looks at me, her expression is firm. And her lips are flat, and her eyes are dull, and her eyebrows are set in a way that puts a little crease at the bride of her nose. “You weren’t happy, Cherry.”

There’s a way she says it, all matter of factly, it offends me a little, it upsets me. And her voice, it’s uncharacteristically stiff.

All I wanted was for us to be happy tonight, for us to have a decent Christmas Eve even though last year that seemed impossible. I feel my heart sink a little thinking of how I fucked up, how I tried to save face and let Sylvia enjoy her party but I fucked it all up. 

“Yes, I was,” I say.

Her lips tug downwards a little, like they’re itching to frown but she won’t let it happen. “I could tell.”

“How?” I ask, voice high and defensive. “Because of the mistletoe thing?”

“Cherry,” she sighs, taking in a deep breath and letting it go as she drums her fingers on the mattress beneath her, “look, I’m sorry about tonight.”

My brain scratches like a record. Sylvia’s eyes are wide, watching me, waiting for me to say something. I don’t even know where to begin.

“What do you mean?” Is all I can muster.

She bites her lip, scrunches her nose, shakes her legs, fiddles with whatever’s in reach--anxious reflexes of hers. “I just. I know how sad you’ve been and how bad it was for you last year, and I wanted this to be our first Christmas Eve together. And I wanted us to have fun and be happy and forget about how fucked everything is. But I ruined it.”

I can tell she’s spiraling when she takes this deep breath, sucks it low in her gut, and she kind of stays still there for a while, holding it, not saying anything, the corners of her eyes filling with water, before rambling on, “I ruined it because I was only thinking about myself and not you, because if I was thinking of you I wouldn’t have even come to Buck’s in the first place. You were probably uncomfortable this whole time and I didn’t even notice until the stupid fucking mistletoe. And now I can’t help but think the entire time I wasn’t even trying to notice how you felt and I made you feel horrible and I’m such a bad-”

Her voice trails off into complete silence. The blowing of the wind outside is louder than our breaths, louder than the creaking of the floor below as I inch closer to her, louder than her chest beginning to heave and rise and fall and rise again. 

“Sylvia,” I say softly. “You didn’t ruin anything. I was having a fun time.”

She shakes her head. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But the mistletoe-” she starts.

I can’t help the chuckle in my voice looking at her face, her cheeks and nose all red, her hazel eyes large and pleading, “I overreacted to that, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Cherry,” she says sternly.

“No, I do,” Sylvia glances up, tilting her head back to meet me. I’ve always been taller, but the difference with me standing and her sitting is just a little larger, I notice some golden flecks in her eyes as I tower over her, it makes me smile. “I was really having a good time and I liked being here. And I felt bad for how I reacted, I felt like I ruined the whole night. But I really did enjoy it.”

She sniffles when she breaths, giving me a genuine, desperate look--an unfamiliar expression. “You promise?”

“Of course, I promise,” I say.

“Pinkie promise?”

I giggle.

“I’m serious,” she says.

I don't respond, instead I extend my little finger out to her, watching gently as she gives out a small huff--her lips curving into a grin. Then she links our hands, looking at me with those dimples in her cheeks and bright teeth. 

"I'm glad I'm spending Christmas Eve with you," I say.

Her bronze cheeks redden, that blush seeping down to her neck--I notice a small sprinkle of freckles by her collarbone. "Yeah, me too."

"I wish we'd done this sooner."

She cocks her head to the side, hair pooling over her round shoulder. "Christmas?"

"Yeah," I nod. 

She chuckles and opens her arms, I lean forward, taking her head in my hands and pulling her close--she wraps herself around my waist, holding on tight. "Cherry, I really don't think either of us would want that."

"Why?" I ask, pulling away. "What makes you say that?"

Her soft hands find mine, bringing them up to her face, leaning into my touch with a graze of her lips against my skin. "I was a mess last year, I wouldn't want anyone to see. 'Sides, I was pretty convinced that your boyfriend was the reason my boyfriend died so," she rolls her eyes and purses her lips, "or ex-boyfriend, I guess. It was always complicated."

I laugh weakly, slipping my fingers in her curls and twisting them around and around--intently focused on the loose spirals. "I just wish we had more time. I wish…" I sigh, "I wish I had someone back then who understood me."

"Cherry," she breathes, reaching out and pulling me down. I let her, let her take me and close the distance between our lips. And when we kiss again, this time all alone to ourselves, my heart dances. Her voice is gentle when she slips away, and warm against my cheeks. "You have me now."

"Yeah," I say, and I feel like melted chocolate. A pool of sap. My hands let go of her, retreating to the pocket of my cardigan and grabbing at a box in there. "Sylvia, I…I have something for you."

Her eyes widen, the hints of green in them sparking. "Huh?"

"I, uh," my words come out jumbled and shaky, "I got you a present."

"We didn't say we were getting presents," she mumbles.

"I know, but," I shrug, "I wanted to get you something."

Sylvia shakes her head. "Now, Cherry, you know that ain't fair. I didn't get you anything."

"I didn't ask for anything."

"Neither did I."

"Sylvie," I say, reveling in the way her face softens, dissolving that crinkle on the bridge of her nose, "I wanted to get you something. Please open it. Pretty please."

She glances away, lips forming in a little pout. "Alright."

I beam. "Alright?"

"Alright," she says, playfully snappy."I already said yes, now hurry it up."

A giggle escapes before I can help myself and I hold out the box to her, letting her inspect it for a while before opening it up and delicately taking out what's inside. A thin silver necklace, dangling light between my fingertips, blinking and glimmering in the dim, yellow glow of the room. 

Something twinkles in her gaze, like she's looking at a star.

"I was gonna get your name on a necklace," I say, biting my lip "but I thought you would find that tacky so I just got a heart. Do you like it?"

She's silent for a while, hands still on her lap, body set tight. "It looks expensive."

I wave my hand dismissively. "It's alright, it really didn't cost that much, all things considered."

"Cherry…" she says it like a whisper.

"Want me to put it on you?"

There's no response. She hangs her head low, an intent stare caught on her feet, tip tapping away at the wooden panels, and her hands gripping tight at the thin blankets she sits on. When I look a little closer, I can see her eyes through the curtain of her hair--and the line of water beginning to form in them.

"Sylvie-"

Her lip is trembling.

I reach out. "Sylvia-"

"Stop it," she says, a crack in her voice--pushing me away and turning to lie flat on the bed. She's mumbled as she cries into the mattress, all sounds and words reaching my ears like I'm underwater. 

I tentatively place a hand on her shoulder, trying my best to soothe her as her shoulders begin to tremble. "Sylvia, did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, I should have told you about getting a present-"

"That," she lifts her head, mascara smeared and running down her cheeks-- I fight the urge to clean her up with my fingers, "stop that. Stop being so good to me."

"I-" I look around nervously. "I don't understand, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying sorry," she nearly cries out, reaching up to rub the black streaks into her face, messily wiping her tears away. "Stop being so perfect, Cherry. I can't take it. You're too good for me."

"What?" I ask incredulously. Something like static fuzzes in my brain and I almost want to laugh thinking about it, thinking of the ridiculous, comical idea of me, me, being too good for her. It takes all my strength not to smile or scoff or cry or react at all. "How can you say that?"

"Because it's true," she sobs. "You're so wonderful. You're pretty and kind and smart and you're such a good person to me and I don't deserve it. I'm not as good as you."

"That's not true," I say.

"Isn't it? You-" she breathes in deep, takes her sleeve and raises it to her cherry red nose, "you came here when you didn't want to, tried to enjoy the night all for me, got me a present when I didn't even ask for it. And that's just today. Everyday with you is like, God, you make me so happy and I don't know what I did to deserve it. Not when I can't give you the same thing. Not when--hey, why are you laughing?"

My hand flies to my mouth, fighting the chuckles that keep threatening to escape. "I'm not."

"You are," she whines.

"I'm sorry," I say, barely containing the smile on my face, "but I can't even believe what you're saying."

Sylvia crosses her arms. "What's so hard to believe, then?"

"I just-" My eyes fly to her fingers, small and slender and lonely. Almost involuntarily, I take them in my own, trying to eclipse the space between us. "You make me so happy too." 

She waits a long beat, the gold of her stare set on mine for a while before she asks, "Really?"

"Yes," I nod. "yes, really. And, well, it may sound silly now but…I've always thought you were better than me."

Her face twists confusedly, eyebrows knitting together, exposing that crease again. "How?"

"You're just so kind. And open and...and honest. And I'm none of those things. And if I am," I notice a rogue ringlet of hers and tuck it behind her ear, she goes pink at that, "It's because I met you."

She's too flustered to speak, all tight-lipped and rouge and rosy. Her mouth will open and close like a fish and all that does is make her more red. She caves a little with a sigh, gazing at me and smiling slightly. "I'm honest?"

"It's one of my favorite things about you," I say. "I couldn't believe that someone like you existed, someone who was just so open, so themselves. It really gave me a kick when we actually met."

"Well," her fingers play with mine, running along my palm and trapping themselves in my hand again, "I never thought of it that way. As honest."

We're looking at each other again. And, Jesus, I could just kiss her mouth over and over. "You know, you're everything I tried my best not to be, but you're also everything I wanna be. I'm trying to be more like you, you know? You complete me." 

"Cherry," she laughs, "you can't just stay stuff like that."

"Sappy stuff?" I ask.

"Yeah." She hides her face in her hair and turns away. "Where'd you learn how to do that? How to make a girl blush. It's like everytime you speak, I can't help myself."

"I'm sorry." And there are butterflies in my stomach to remind me that I am very much, indeed, not sorry.

"You know," she's grinning, cheek to cheek, happy like I've never seen her, "you're everything I wanna be too."

"Rich?"

"Understanding," she says. "Patient, warm, so, so smart. Perfect."

I shake my head. "You know I'm not perfect." 

Sylvia's kissing me before I know it, pecking me swift and soft, just enough to tease me and get me to shut up, just enough for her to get her grip on my jaw and force me to look in her eyes. "You're perfect to me. You're my kind of perfect."

It's like I'm breathless. I think my lungs have failed. "I...I'm glad I meet your expectations."

She smiles. "All of them and beyond."

And then I'm being pinned on the bed, laughing as she attacks me over and over with her mouth, nipping at my lip and ear and tickling my sides with feather like fingers. I playfully push her away but draw her even closer as each second passes. Holding her near and dear to me and never wanting to let her go.

She settles all of her weight on top of me and I let her, and it's all natural and perfect like I was born to fit here with her body--like she's my missing puzzle piece. I find her curls again and play with them, twirl them around my fingers in awe and marvel at how I love her so much I could just burst.

"So can you wear the necklace now?" I ask with a whisper.

Sylvia giggles and kisses me again, speaking slow against my mouth, caressing me with every syllable, "Sure, Cherry Valance. Sure I can."

My parents arrive back home every 4pm on Christmas day. But I think it's reasonable that I expect their return to be sooner. 

It's almost impossible to pry myself away from Sylvia in the mornings, especially when she clings to me and begs me to stay, and yet I still managed it. And I managed to get dressed and convince her to stay in bed--she insisted on walking me home but she was so evidently hungover and I wanted her to rest.

I made myself a piping cup of coffee for my headache when I got back. Then I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and went straight to the kitchen again, fetching some cocoa powder and marshmallows from the pantry to make myself hot chocolate. 

There's a large Christmas Tree in my living room, it stands at 9 feet and is a great display for any guests my parents decide to brag to--the Valance family prides themselves on having the best trees in town. It's comforting to sit by my fireplace, bask in the warm glow of the flame and study its many branches and candles, and the presents that lay beneath it. My mother told me I could open them while they were gone, but I've never been much for gifts. They never satisfied me and, well, I thought that was just the power hungry consequence of being born wealthy. 

But as I sit by that tree and fireplace, I realize all I needed was someone like Sylvia. Someone more than just a friend or just a lover, someone who understands me in a way I'm not used to, someone who doesn't ask me to hide. 

It sounds cheesy, but it makes me feel warm. Warmer than the mug of chocolate in my hands. 

It's 1pm when the doorbell rings. I know it can't be my parents since they have a key, but I can't guess who else would show up at my door on Christmas morning.

I get up nonetheless, set my cup aside and dust myself off. I'm wearing pajamas, it makes me feel a little silly, like maybe I should change before I answer the door. But I brush that aside, tossing my hair over my shoulders as I reach the foyer, turning my doorknob and inviting a cold chill into the house. 

And I see Sylvia.

"Hey, Cherry," she says sheepishly.

She's wearing a different outfit from the previous night, dark jeans with a gentle flare at her ankles, a white blouse, a large, thick coat--and I immediately recognize the glimmer of my necklace hanging right by her collarbone. I can't help but feel childish and odd-looking in my blue pajama shirt and pants. 

But I notice her arms and the way they're tucked behind her back, like she's hiding something.

"Hi," I muster weakly. "Hi, Sylvia, um, I didn't know you were coming."

She laughs. "Well, I guess I didn't plan it but, uh, are your parents home?"

I shake my head. "No, not yet."

"Alright." Her lips purse and she rolls her shoulders. "Do you think you and I can go somewhere private really quick?"

"Oh," I say, looking around hastily. "Do you wanna come inside?"

"Woah," her eyes widen and she holds up a hand, "no, no I'm totally fine."

"What's wrong with my house?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. 

"Well, why can't you come inside?"

"I've just," she shifts around, her hand moving behind her again, hums and looks down shyly. "I've never been in there before and, I don't know, it's just intimidating."

My eyes dart around and I shrug. "We can go in my backyard?" 

She glances up at me, seemingly contemplating for a moment before bobbing her head, "Alright."

Sylvia waits at my porch for a minute as I rush upstairs, grabbing an overcoat from my closet and slipping it on swiftly, then rebounding to her and leading us away from my porch. I take her past the side of my house to this little, brown fence that's never locked, creaking it open to reveal my backyard--empty and sullen now that no one has used it in a month or two, sunken with snow. 

She regards the space with wide eyes, studying it with slow movements as she meekly trails behind me. "Wow."

"Wow, what?" I ask.

"I didn't know backyards could be this big," she says, breathless.

And looking at the expression on her face, I can't help but laugh. When I do, she winces.

"Is that tacky to say?"

I walk up to her and touch one of my hands to hers, planting a small kiss on the tip of her nose. "You always worry that you're being tacky. You never are, darling."

She hums lightly in her throat at the feeling of my lips, reaching up to peck me quickly. 

I tangle my fingers in her hair, tilting her head back so my mouth can find hers more easily, "Is that why you came over here, Sylvie, to kiss me?"

"Hmm?" She says absentmindedly, then pauses for a second and, "Oh! Oh right! I…" Her voice trails off and she looks at me nervously. "I brought something."

"Really?" I ask. "Like a gift?"

She nods. 

"Sylvia," I start, "last night, when I gave you the necklace, I really hope that didn't pressure you-"

"Oh no!" Her hand flies to her neck like a reflex, fiddling with the silver piece of jewelery that lays there. "You didn't pressure me at all! I mean, I guess I felt a little guilty but...I really do think you deserve to see what I brought. I think… I think it's time."

Something like a breathy laugh passes through me, I can practically feel the smile seeping on my face. "You sound so vague and cryptic."

"Well," she giggles. "I brought something really, really important to me and… I hope you like it."

"I know I will."

"You can't say that yet," she pouts. 

"But I know I will."

"Ssh," she snaps. "I need this to be all heartfelt and gooey, like something you would do to me. Cherry, stop laughing."

"Sorry, you're just so cute."

"Thank you, now," she closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath, "Jesus, okay, I'm just gonna do it." When she lets it go, she reaches behind her back and pulls something out, handing it to me and looking away like she can't bare to see my reaction. "Merry Christmas, Cherry Valance."

A notebook. Actually, two of them. Sketchpads, I realize upon closer inspection. For some reason, I'm hesitant to take them. Sylvia's never shown me her art, only discussed it, and curious as I've been I never asked to see it. I always assumed it was something private to her, special, the one thing she doesn't want to disclose to the world. And I wanted to respect that.

But here she is now, handing it over as a Christmas present. 

I almost don't take them, but Sylvia drums her fingers against the covers nervously like a silent plea. So I do as she asks, snatching them from her hands and cradling them in my arms, still so reticent to open them.

Sylvia's back to looking at me now, I can feel it. Her gaze is so nervous and piercing. She's waiting for me, and a part of myself is waiting just as much. Why am I so anxious?

This is a tiny little corner of her she's never shared with the world before. And it dawns on me that I'm reaching the final chapter of the book she's written for herself.

She's saying it without saying it: I love you.

No, she's saying something more important than that: I trust you.

I trust you to love me back.

I think. I think I'm gonna cry.

"Cherry," her soft voice says, trembling and quivering, "are you gonna open it?"

Is this how she felt last night opening my present? But that necklace can't even compare to this. As much as it cost, it seems cheap and meaningless when caressing the scratchy cover of this book. It's all so much more priceless. 

"Please," Sylvia says, "please open it."

So I do. 

And I'm met with my own face, sketched in rosy colored pencils, pink and red and burgundy. Soft and warm and kind. I'm seeing myself through Sylvia's eyes, and it's almost like a fun house mirror.

This isn't me. It can't be me. That smile, that gentle expression. It all belongs to a stranger, everything I'm not. Everything I've wanted to be.

But when I flip a page, there she is again. That girl with the sweet face, the welcoming eyes. Someone most definitely unlike myself but uncannily resembling me.

And she's there on the next page and the page after that. She's there in the next sketchbook too.

I see her so often that it's almost like I forget she's something unreal, a fantasy Sylvia conjured in her head, a lie. Because at some point it's like I begin to believe that's me. 

"Cherry, you're crying."

I touch my hand to my cheek. It's wet. "Oh, oh I guess I am."

My voice, it's all cracked and broken. I can barely make out any words.

"Oh, God," Sylvia says, biting her lip, "is it awful?"

When I try to speak, I sob. Once. Painfully. I try one more time and it happens again. And now I'm really crying. All I can do is reach out and grab her, draw her to me and refuse to ever let her leave, kiss her over and over until I can tell her all that she's told me, until I can be honest too. 

"It's beautiful," I cry into her shoulder. "It's so beautiful."

She squeezes me tight, I can feel her body start to shake. "Cherry, don't do this to me. I cried enough last night."

I laugh and pull away, my head clouded with a thousand thoughts, my body overwhelmed with a thousand emotions, the word LOVE LOVE LOVE echoing in my mind as I look at her face, and the thin tears forming in her eyes. "Sylvia-"

"Cherry-"

"I love you."

I don't know who says it first, I don't know who says it last, I don't know who says it for the longest or the clearest. But we say it, and now it's out there in the universe, whistling in the winter breeze of the pine trees.

Sylvia's overcome, sobbing uncontrollably into her hands. "I'm so sorry, Cherry."

"Jesus," I say, "what could you be sorry for, I love you."

"I love you too and you say I'm honest and maybe I am but," a hoarse cry escapes her throat and I have to laugh, "stop laughing! This is serious! Last night, I-" another sob "-that guy, the guy with the jacket, I never fooled around with him. I barely hung out with him, I barely talked to him. I saw him at a diner and asked for his jacket and asked him to come to Buck’s because you were gonna be there and-" a large sniffle "-I wanted to make you jealous, I'm so sorry, I'm a terrible person."

"Sylvia-"

"I am," she says, "I've never been with someone like you, someone who treats me the way you do. You've seen my exes, the men I've been with. Ain't none of them treated me right. And the only time they ever noticed me or cared is when I pissed them off or flirted with another guy and, God, I'm just so used to people being awful and angry with me. I'm so used to making people hate me. Sometimes I feel like I can't stand how you make me feel and I need you to realize how horrible I am, we're not even together but you make me feel like a stupid little girlfriend and I just can't stand it, Cherry. I've never been in love like this and I've never been loved like this. And I try so hard to push your buttons, I try to make you hate me, and you just won't budge. You-"

She wipes at her eyes and her nose, shaking soft in my grasp, "Why, Cherry? Why do you want me? Ain't you heard what everyone says about me? I'm a whore, a cheater, I drink, I smoke, I mean I'm everything bad. You said it yourself, I'm everything you try not to be. So, why me? I can't even love myself, Cherry, so how can you?"

"God." All I can do is kiss her, grab her face and smash our lips together, find the courage to speak in the rhythm of her mouth. There's nothing I can say or do to match the way my heart beats around her, the way my mind goes blank. There's no way to describe it, how when I'm with her all I can do is feel. And I've learned to love that, the beauty in feeling.

The beauty in pain, the beauty in jealousy, the beauty in happiness, and even crying. It's all magical and she's the one who showed it to me.

"You're perfect," I whisper through tears, the words make her sob even more. "You're my kind of perfect."


End file.
